Wow, some how this discussion has come full circle: death, funeral, blood stains! How cosmic! 
Yeah baby!!! 
You guys may have sunshine but we have snow…yay snow! Lots and lots of the wonderful stuff!! Woohoo! In your face! Ha!
Tin gets drenched by the sarcasim dripping of that sentence
“Oprah?” Merry asks in disbelief. “Oh no, just please don’t tell me it’ll be one of those episodes where we all sit around and sip coffee and wax poetically about the last book we read!” 
here is me and Cosmo. Blackhoresrulez!
Are you in CA??
Merry slams down the phone yet once again: “Everytime I call Idaho I get Bob’s answering machine. I believe he always thought me a tad… “tightly wound”. The last thing I want to do is leave an obscure message that we’re having a funeral at the Chronicle and we want to know what happened to his grown daughter.” 
You know, I thought it was my shoes that were beginning to emit an odor, what with my tramping out to the koi pond periodically. But now I realize it’s the Merry Thread corpse. Isn’t it about time we throw the coffin into our Circle J trailer and haul it out to the cemetary and bury the darn thing? 
You don’t mean to tell me that I’m the only huntseat person in Calif. to use nylon halters? Oh, come now, “out yourselves”!
We don’t turn-out our horses in them (especially now, since our turn-out is a koi pond/rice paddy). And we don’t even have cross-ties… or a hitching post, for that matter! We tack up in the stall. Yes, we take “backyarders” to a new level, and proudly, I might add! 
Hey, is this morphing into a funeral for springtime weather?
An elderly man lay dying in his bed. He suddenly
smelled the aroma of his favorite chocolate chip cookies wafting up
the stairs. He gathered his remaining strength and lifted himself
from the bed. He slowly made his way out of
the bedroom, and with even greater effort forced himself down the
stairs, gripping the railing with both hands.
With labored breath, he leaned against the doorframe, gazing into the
kitchen. Were it not for death’s agony, he would have thought himself
already in heaven: there, spread out upon newspapers on the kitchen
table were literally hundreds of his favorite chocolate chip cookies.
Was it heaven? Or was it one final act of heroic love from his
devoted wife, seeing to it that he left this world a happy man?
The aged and withered hand,
shakingly, made its way to a cookie at the edge of the table. SMACK! His beloved wife had smacked his hand with a spatula.
“Stay out of those,” she said. “They’re for the wake.”
Weeble! You may wobble but you don’t fall down.
C’mon, admit it, you have to give me an ‘a’ for sabotage effort.
Oh, a syndicate. We’ll have to form a syndicate.
elizabeth has no freakin’ idea what that means, but it sounds good to say in a situation like this! Those entertainment lawyers are always forming syndicates. Weeble, thanks for reminding me that I am now an entertainment lawyer!
Cosmo is at Foxpointe farm. There are lots of kids there. Do you have a picture of your horse Buster? He sounds very nice. I hope you can find a nice barn
I didn’t mean to topple the ice sculpture on you. I am such a klutz. I will go make more Margaritas since I spilled the last batch. I am making all these Margaritas to practice my bar tending skills, because one of the few things a person can do in this weather is drink. We certainly can’t ride. It is to wet and cold (60s).
